Her Thousandth
by hopelesslyhalfhearted
Summary: You sit up quickly, though you're careful not to let the duvet slip down below your waist. You then realise this is silly; you're not just friends anymore, not after last night.


"Nikki?" You know what you're about to ask will definitely irritate her, probably anger her and possibly make her throw you out. But you're dying to know; it feels like you can't rest until you find out; which, you think, is pretty ridiculous, seeing as no matter what the answer is none of your feelings will change. You ask yourself why you care so much about the answer, if you already know it won't make a difference to you in the slightest. Curiosity, you decide.

"Hmmm?" She looks pretty in the morning, maybe even prettiest. You like that her hair is tangled up in knots and allowed to cascade down her back and around her shoulders, leaving it free for you to play with. You also notice the distinct lack of makeup – it's not that you've never seen her without makeup before, but most of the times that she has been fresh-faced in your company previously, involve her being too distraught to bother with plastering products over her face – now, she is smiling so widely, that you swear the sun is being reflected off her teeth.

"How many people have been in your bed before me?" You notice her stiffen, and hope that the reassuring squeeze you give her will calm her down. She wriggles out from your arms, despite your best attempts to keep her there, and sits up.

"Tip 1." She reaches over and grabs your shirt, buttoning it up and stepping out of the king-sized bed simultaneously. "Don't call a girl a slut just after you've slept with her."

"I don't think you're a slut!" You sit up quickly, though you're careful not to let the duvet slip down below your waist. You then realise this is silly; you're not _just _friends anymore, not after last night.

"How many people do you think have been in my bed before you, Harry?"

"I don't think you're a slut." You honestly don't. Well, maybe you do, a little bit, but slut's too harsh a word. Maybe she'd be best described as a little bit promiscuous. "I was just curious."

"Curious as to how many guys the great whore Nikki Alexander had managed to get through her front door?" You're becoming increasingly conscious of the see-through-ness of your shirt. "Harry Cunningham, just another notch on her bedpost," She flings her arms around dramatically.

"I hope I'm not just another notch on your bedpost." Oh god. You think maybe you should just stop talking. "Not that you have bedpost notches. I didn't mean that." You fumble with an explanation. "I meant I hope I'm not another one night stand. Not..._another_...that's the wrong word, I mean, not that you have lots of one night stands...I..."

"None, Harry. Is that the answer you wanted?" You try to hide your surprise; you think if she sees it, she'll hate you even more. "I have a rule to never let people back to my place. That doesn't mean I don't sleep with anyone. I just don't do it in my own bed."

"Not even the paramedic?" You find it hard to believe that weasel didn't wriggle his way in somehow.

"Not even Ryan." You let out a breath. Although, you're not sure why you were holding it in the first place, the answer never really mattered. "Happy?" You try desperately to think of some way to return her cheeks back to the porcelain colour they had been when you first woke up, as opposed to the bright red flush that adorned them as soon as you posed your question.

"You could have said there were nine hundred and night nine guys, and named every single one of them, and I'd still be happy." Then, you have one of those brain clicking moments. You suddenly realise why you brought it all up in the first place, some weird and twisted need to be for assurance of your new position in her life. "As long as you told me you were stopping at a thousand."

You see her face change slightly, though only slightly. You can tell she's fighting to stay mad at you, but you notice that, underneath, there's something else. Not happiness, that seems to simple and obvious; comfort, you think, is the emotion that she's fighting to not let reach the surface. You think you managed to be quite cute in the end, though you make a mental note to not enter volatile situations without carefully running through every possible question and thinking of a good answer.

"You're a dick."

"A dick you're willing to put up with for a considerable amount of time?" She simply shrugs at you, before turning away and going into the kitchen. You don't worry about her vague answer, though.

You saw the corners of her mouth curl upwards.


End file.
